


The Sweater

by moonflowers



Series: Harringrove Holiday Prompts [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Steve's a little thirsty, Tumblr Prompt, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 18:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16938429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Steve is almost asleep when the doorbell rings.





	The Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo the good people behind the Harringrove Holiday Exchange gave us a list of holiday prompts to play with as well as the main exchange, which I am ALL ABOUT. Thanks guys ;) So I had to do a few. This was for prompt 7 Ugly Sweater – shocker, I know – because I definitely did not do these in any kind of order.

It was the first Christmas Eve night that Steve had spent totally alone. The last one he’d spent with his parents must have been, oh, maybe three or four years ago now. Then he’d spent a couple getting drunk at Tommy’s cos his mom didn’t give a shit, one with Nance at the Wheelers’, and he’d somehow ended up spending most of last Christmas Eve at Dustin’s. Though really, he didn’t mind it all that much. He’d spent most of the afternoon at the Byers’, kitchen full of the smell of hot sugar and gingerbread as Joyce tried not to burn cookies, the kids making decorations and yelling at each other in excitement, glitter and construction paper everywhere. There were Christmas songs on the radio. And it was nice, but he’d still felt like kind of a spare part sitting around the kitchen table, and had bowed out a little early despite Joyce’s offer of dinner. He’d be back over there tomorrow anyhow, so. But that had been hours ago, and the loneliness was starting to seep back in around the edges. 

The gold clock that sat on the mantelpiece, ugly as hell and handed down from his mom’s great aunt or some shit, chimed midnight. Christmas day. He was feeling drowsy, sprawled out and sleep-rumpled under a pile of blankets, and wondered if dragging himself upstairs to sleep was worth the effort. It was warmer in the den, too. And he liked looking at the Christmas tree, alright? His parents weren’t going to be home until the twenty sixth, but they always made sure they had the priciest tree they could get their hands on. Always had done. But then the doorbell rang, and any comfort he might have drawn from the festive warmth of the den was zapped.

Knowing that it could only be either something totally harmless or something fucking… _apocalyptic,_ Steve reasoned he’d feel worse in either case if he didn’t answer it. He’d rather know for sure. Trying to remember whether he’d left the bat under his bed or in the car, he rubbed the grit out of his eye as he pulled the door open. It was Hargrove. Hand scraped and bleeding where it was wrapped around himself against the cold, in a cotton tee and jeans and soaked with melted snow, scowling and oddly hopeful. Which was an expression, Steve noticed, that he wiped from his face almost as quickly as Steve opened the door.

“Hargrove.”

“Harrington,” he grinned at him, all teeth. They weren’t friends, exactly. But there was enough ground made up between them that Billy had probably guessed Steve would let him in. He was right. Steve stepped aside, knowing better than to ask too many questions. But one slipped out before he could stop it, eye on his bloody, swelling knuckles. “Who’d you hit?” 

Billy’s scowl deepened instantly, drawing up and into himself. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Hargrove – “

“Fuck you Harrington,” he spat, already turning to step off the porch. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Billy!” he stopped, hand reaching out to empty air, suddenly desperate for him to _not leave._ “Don’t be a dick. It’s cold, and – just come inside?”

He did, slowly, glowering at the carpet in the hall. There was melted snow dripping from his wet curls.

“You hungry?” said Steve as he clicked the door shut, because he was kind of out of his fucking depth here.

“No.”

“Okay. Um. Anything else you want?”

“No.”

“Jesus, I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need fucking charity – “

“Yeah, yeah, I know big guy. You’re tough.” Steve shook his head, exasperated. “Look,” he said before Billy could shout him down for that, “at least take a shower okay? Get warmed up and whatever before your fingers start falling off.”

“Fine,” Hargrove rolled his eyes, unfolding his arms to gesture towards the stairs. “Lead the way, pretty boy.”

“Okay,” Steve nodded, eyes momentarily stuck on the pull of wet fabric across Billy’s chest, before he realised he was staring and shook himself out of it. “Come on.”

Billy followed him up the stairs, surprisingly, and stayed quiet while Steve dug around in the closet to find him a towel. It wasn’t until then that Steve noticed him shivering, teeth clenched and body taught in an attempt to keep it hidden, which made Steve feel about ten times more of a dick for eyeing him up in the hall. “Here,” he handed the towel over. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. I’ll uh, leave you something to wear outside the door, okay?”

“Thanks Harrington,” Billy said, sarcastic, grinning all smarmy at him, typical enough that Steve could almost pretend the whole thing was normal. “You’re a peach.”

“Whatever,” he said, a little hot on the back of his neck. “just don’t get blood all over everything, asshole.”

#

Billy came down the stairs a while later, hair still mostly wet, and curlier than ever. He was wearing the borrowed sweats Steve had left for him, and a white tee that was too long for his torso but fit too tight across his chest and shoulders. Steve was staring again, and only snapped out of it when he happened to glance up high enough to see the thunderous expression on Billy’s face as he waved the sweater he was holding at him.

“The fuck is this?” 

“A sweater,” Steve said from where he was curled up the couch pretending not to be waiting for him.

“The _fuck,_ Harrington,” he said. “You have a fucking death wish or somethin’? I’m not wearing this shit.”

“It’ll fit you better than any of my other sweaters,” Steve shrugged, still trying to bite back a smile. “My Aunt Miriam always sends one, and she never gets the size right. And it’s fucking cold, so put it on, dickhead.”

“Is your aunt fuckin’ blind, Jesus Christ…” Billy grumbled to himself as he did as Steve asked and pulled the sweater over his head, though he still looked grouchy as hell. When exactly Steve had stopped finding that aggravating in favour of it being sort of… cute, he wasn’t really sure. But Billy’s sulky face poking out of the admittedly terrible snowman sweater wasn’t doing much to change that. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The tv was still on low, and Billy came to sit down next to him on the couch without saying anything, eyes fixed on the screen. They sat there long enough that Steve thought Billy might have fallen asleep, gradually slumping down so he was propped up against Steve’s side, one hand fisted loose in Steve’s sweats. He stayed quiet, afraid of waking Billy up, of breaking the moment or whatever. His hair smelt of Steve’s shampoo, and he ran hot, practically burning all down Steve’s side. Without him noticing, Steve’s arm had slipped around Billy’s shoulder, fingers curled around his arm.

“Happy Christmas, Hargrove,” he said quietly, still afraid of waking him up, but wanting to say it anyway, even if Billy wouldn’t hear it.

“Happy Christmas, Harrington.”


End file.
